


Mine

by battle_cat



Series: Together [13]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Biting, F/M, Morning Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sharing Clothes, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 13:19:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9442403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battle_cat/pseuds/battle_cat
Summary: She’s wearing his shirt, and nothing else.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on YoukaiYume's smutty art.

He wakes up relaxed and easy, not the brake-slam of a nightmare but a slow surfacing into early morning light. It happens more often these days—far more often, if he lets himself stop and think about it—but not so frequently that he’s lost the sense of wonder about it.

Furiosa’s side of the bed is empty. When he looks up he sees her sitting half-sideways on the stone bench beside the worktable, her metal arm balanced in a cradle while she tinkers with one of its tiny servos. One of her legs is folded up under her, the other stretched out long and bare. She’s wearing his shirt, and nothing else.

They’d trudged back to her room exhausted last night after working their shift at the canola harvest. Harvest time meant long hours in the sun and wind on the top of the towers, bent over to scoop the thin seedpods into baskets. (He’d overheard Janey telling Dag that in the Old World the plants could grow taller than a man’s head, but under the Wasteland sun they barely made it to his waist.)

Furiosa had stripped out of her sweaty clothes as soon as the door was closed and hadn’t bothered to put anything else on. He’d only managed to kick his boots off before flopping down on the bed. She’d coaxed him out of his shirt in order to knead the tension out of his back and shoulders, teasing him now and then with a soft kiss or the brush of a bare breast against his skin, and he’d fully intended to respond to that, but instead he’d fallen asleep.

And now it’s morning and he’s slept as well as he ever does, in a bed that feels as familiar as the driver’s seat of his car, and Furiosa is wearing his shirt, the left sleeve rolled up to her elbow and the pale curve of her bum peeking out from under the ragged hem.

It’s…he isn’t sure how to feel about any of it. It feels like a dream he should be preparing to wake up from, a strange conflation of normals, the domesticity of a dead world overlayed on the blistering now of road wars and desert strongholds won in blood.

Furiosa tilts her head to examine her handiwork and the collar of his shirt slides off her shoulder, a stripe of pale flesh that her sleeve normally covers next to the tanned skin of her back.

He clears his throat.

She turns to look at him and smiles. She looks relaxed and rested too, long-limbed and lanky and gorgeous in the morning light, and soft. He would never have thought she could look soft.

“That’s mine,” he notes, nodding to his shirt. She gives him a sly smile.

“I was cold.”

“Mm. Warmer in the bed.”

She stands up and crosses to the mattress. His shirt is almost-but-not-quite long enough to hide the dark triangle of her pubic hair.

“Don’t usually…let people borrow my things,” he said as she kneels on the mattress next to him.

“Feel free to reclaim it.” She leans in and he has a handful of his shirt and an arm around her back to pull her down on top of him. She lands with her nose practically touching his, adjusts herself so her thigh is pressed solid and warm against his crotch.

His hand slides under the shirt, along the muscles of her back, but he doesn’t make a move to take it off her. “Maybe you look good in it.”

He pulls her in for a kiss, her mouth warm and eager against his, her short hair soft under his palm against the back of her head. She hums appreciatively when his other hand slides down to cup her ass, holding her against him where her hips are making tiny involuntary movements. She outright moans when he squeezes, holding her tight against him while he nips and licks down her neck.

(It still seems unreal, that she will let him know her like this, learn the things that rev her up with dizzying ease, let him take her apart night after night as if he’s deserving of such intimate trust, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world—)

“You’re hard,” she murmurs against his lips, grinding down hard enough against him that a little _unf_ escapes his lips.

“You’re wet.” She is; he can feel her dripping against the tips of his fingers in the spot where her ass becomes her inner thigh.

“Mm,” she smiles. “What should we do about that?”

He moves suddenly, flips them over and gets a bright clear laugh out of her, keeps moving her until she’s on her side with her back against his chest. His shirt has ridden halfway up her stomach now; he hikes it up higher to get his hand on her breast, stroking and teasing and pinching her already-hard nipple.

“Fuck,” she whines as he nibbles at her shoulder. “Just fuck me already.” He can’t help laughing. She rocks her ass back against the rough leather of his trousers and then he’s fumbling to unbuckle them and shove them down enough to get his cock out.

He pushes into her all at once, gets rewarded with a guttural moan. He likes the way a-little-too-much-too-fast makes her go to pieces; loves that she trusts him to overwhelm her.

“Unh—yes,” she mutters when he starts moving, slow and steady and deep. His mouth is back on the spot where her neck meets her shoulder, sucking hard before it occurs to him not to leave too prominent a mark.

But she whines when he goes back to soft kisses. “Your mouth—keep doing that,” she pants between thrusts.

“Gonna—hnn—leave a mark.”

“Do it—I want you to.” And that’s all he needs to bite down on her shoulder like it’s a conditioned response. She wails and he feels her cunt twitch briefly around him and—he’s definitely filing _that_ away for later. For now he slides his hand down between her legs, stroking slowly while he sucks bruising marks on her neck. Her legs twitch as soon as his fingers brush over her clit, her fingers digging into his ass hard enough that he think he’ll have marks of his own. He tries to draw it out, make it last, but she’s already in overdrive and in no time at all she is shuddering and crying out, and his own body is helpless to resist, spilling inside her just as her own orgasm is starting to subside.

He keeps touching her, nudging her into raw little aftershocks that make her legs twitch, until she reaches down and moves his hand away. They’re both sweaty and gasping, and he’s left half a dozen dark hickies on her neck and shoulder and back, well above the line where her shirt or the pauldron of her arm would hide them.

She shifts a little, enough for his cock to slide out of her, twisting around to kiss him and run a greedy hand through his hair. When she rolls all the way over, uncaring about the sticky spot on the sheets between them, she hooks a leg firmly over his hip.

After a long interlude of soft kisses she shimmies out of his shirt and drapes it over his side. “Finished with it now.”

“Mm.” He sucks her bottom lip between his a moment before releasing it. “Not cold anymore?”

“Fixed that.” Her tongue swipes into his mouth for a second and then retreats. “Very effective solution.”

 

When he puts his shirt on later, after they’ve washed and put themselves back together, it smells faintly of her sweat as well as his.


End file.
